


Once Proud

by Meg13



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: F/M, Hangover, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Poor Life Choices, Strickler is NOT taking loss well, Substance Abuse, and help him get his shit together, but thankfully Nomura is there to punch him in the face, mature themes, no fluff here, not my usual style guys, that’s a lie - there’s some fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 20:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meg13/pseuds/Meg13
Summary: Nomura and Strickler discuss life, love, and loss. Sorta.Takes place in Season Two.





	Once Proud

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write a hungover Strickler and it sorta spiraled into - this -despite my best intentions.

He wakes up on the forty-eighth day – tongue dry and swollen, vision swirling nauseatingly – to the scent of stale vomit and freshly brewed coffee. And that’s odd (the coffee, not the vomit) considering the safe house he’s taken up residence in for the past few weeks hadn’t come stocked with the usual creature comforts such as coffee makers. Or electricity, or even intact windowpanes.

There’s no bed. Of that, he’s quite sure. Just a dusty old loveseat he passes out on each night, knees bent over the arm in awkward angles. Which leads him to believe he’s not at the safe house at all. Because the silken sheets clutched within his fists and the plush, goose-feather pillows his face is pressed into are not at all what he’s been suffering through since his shameful escape from Arcadia all those weeks ago.

Walter looks up, blinking blearily into the early morning sunlight streaming through the wide, arching windows. Where is he?

There had been a pretty redhead. That, he remembers. And even though her tresses were a bit too blond and her eyes bit too hazel, she could have almost passed for… No. He shakes his head, and immediately regrets it. Why is his temple pounding? Ah, yes. Tequila. Not his usual, but he’d been feeling nostalgic the night before and the memory of _her_ snorting with laughter into a strawberry margarita had spurred a sudden desire for something a little more exotic than scotch.

He turns stiffly onto his side, and fights the urge to empty his stomach upon the shining marble tile before managing to wiggle one leg out from under the luxurious bedding. Did he go home with her? he wonders, shutting his eyes as the room spins. Maybe. But that doesn’t seem right.

The world had gone blurry sometime before midnight and his memory is nothing more than a series of fuzzy snapshots, but he does seem to recall Nomura’s fist slamming into his face before being bodily dragged from the seedy pub at some point. Wait. That can’t have happened. Nomura is trapped in the Darklands and no one escapes that Hellscape with their head still attached to their shoulders.

 _Nightmare_ , his addled mind supplies, _or Otto parading about in Nomura’s skin. Again._

But then he’d be dead if Otto had caught him in such a disgraceful, defenseless state – which is actually a more appealing prospect than his current miserable circumstances.

He breathes and, with considerable effort, slips his other leg out of the tangle of sheets. The room spins again as he pulls himself upright and he clutches his forehead with his palms until it finally settles a moment later. His first attempt to stand is unsuccessful, but he does manage it the second time and is even able to swallow back the bile bubbling in the back of his throat as he takes the few sluggish steps into the bathroom.

He leans forward against the sink, wincing when he catches his reflection in the mirror. The past few weeks have not been good to him. Or, more appropriately, he has not been good to himself for the past few weeks. His usually vibrant emerald eyes are dull and bloodshot, his hair a lackluster mess. He can’t remember the last time he shaved, but judging from the length of his – the word _stubble_ would be putting it mildly – it’s been quite a while.

Not that he cares. There’s no one to impress anymore, anyway. No operatives to direct or minions to terrify, no faculty to lead or students to reprimand.

No Barbara.

“You... are _pathetic_.”

Walter squeezes his eyes shut, head dropping forward in shame. He’s made an absolute mess – particularly in the case of the once-exquisite 17th Century soaking tub he very much doubts will ever recover from his late-night abuse – of not only his own life, but _hers_ as well.

 And that does not sit well with him.

Nor does that last Paloma the redhead had handed him, and he spends the next few minutes with his head hung in the toilet violently expelling what little is left in his heaving stomach. He’s still squeezing back perfunctory tears and wincing at singed nose hairs, when the first boisterous notes of _Ride of The Valkyries_ suddenly trumpets cruelly through the posh bathroom. The unexpected volume shocks his already jittering system and he rears forward, forehead smashing painfully into the tiled wall.

“Fuck,” he hisses, eyes wide. His hand flies to the small cut now adorning his hairline as he leans back on his haunches, shaking his head in a way that both clears and clouds his vision. It takes him a moment to reestablish his bearings and to drum up enough energy, but he eventually climbs to his feet and staggers back through the bedroom into a sprawling, indecently bright living area. He clutches his ears and shouts over the music, “Really, Nomura? _Wagner_?”

Nomura quirks a single, elegant eyebrow and uses a small remote to click off the music. “You look like shit, Stricklander.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Coffee?”

Walter stares.

“Or,” Nomura nods to the drink menu propped up at the end of the mahogany table, “maybe a little hair of the dog to settle your stomach?”

“I’m never drinking again,” Walter declares with a groan, glaring dubiously at the menu as he collapses into a chair across from his fellow changeling. He snatches a glass of water off the table and chugs the contents in one go.

“Is that so?” Nomura tilts her head and taps the china under her delicate espresso cup. “And how many times have you had to tell yourself that lately?”

Walter ignores her question and stuffs a piece of dry wheat toast into his mouth. He chews slowly and swallows thickly while Nomura continues to eye him critically. “What?”

“Shall I get you a robe?”

Walter glances down and, for the first time since regaining consciousness that morning, notices he’s clad only in a pair of black boxer-briefs. He looks up at her suspiciously. “Did you undress me?”

“Don’t act like it hasn’t happened before.” Nomura rolls her eyes. They had been roommates for a spell in the eighties, after all. “And it would have been a crime to let you destroy those beautiful sheets with your filth. Especially after what you did to the tub.”

She has a good point.

“Do you remember anything from last night?” Nomura asks over the rim of her mug as she takes a sip. “Anything at all?”

“I remember you punched me in the face.”

“Had to say hello somehow.” Nomura shrugs, unconcerned for his visage. “And I don’t know what you said to that woman, but she was determined to take you home. Drastic measures were necessary.”

“Are you talking about that redhead? The one buying me drinks?”

“She was blond, you idiot.”

“Are you sure?” Walter arches an eyebrow skeptically. The only reason he’d been attracted to Alessandra – or was it Annabella? Anna, maybe? – in the first place was because of her light copper tresses.

“Positive,” Nomura says resolutely. “And she looked _nothing_ like the Trollhunter’s mother.”

“That’s not…” Walter instantly bristles. “I don’t know why… I wasn’t –“

“You were.” Nomura levels a knowing, pointed look at him. “Don’t be difficult about it, Stricklander. I’ve known you since the nest.”

Walter’s lip curls into a pout. “How did you escape the Darklands?”

“Nice try,” Nomura snorts, shaking her head. She gestures to the pot and, after receiving a petulant nod in return, pours Walter a cup of steaming coffee before refreshing her own. “The state you were in last night was –“

“Pathetic. Yes, I know.”

“Heartbreaking.”

Walter frowns into his cup.

“I know it hurts,” Nomura admonishes, though her tone is unusually soft and gentle. “But that’s no excuse for your behavior.”

“You’re right. It’s not,” Walter mutters in agreement, gaze firmly fixed on the edge of the ornate table as he sets down his mug. “It’s just a lot easier to cope when you’re unable to think straight.”

“Is it really?”

“For a little while, yes.” He winces as a jolt of pain lances through the base of his skull. “Though I suppose there are a few drawbacks.”

Nomura sighs. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

He opens his mouth, an offensive retort at the tip of his tongue, but finds he has neither the energy nor the venom to deliver it. And, for once, decides to tell the truth. “I feel like I’ve lost a part of myself. Like I’m missing an arm or a leg.” His eyes fall shut as he murmurs, “But that’s silly, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think it’s silly at all.”

“No.” He winces and settles his gaze over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

There’s a brief pause wherein Nomura continues to eye him until, eventually, she asks, “Do you remember what you said to me when you found out about him?”

He has to give her credit – she doesn’t sound at all bitter for the cruel, careless words he’d flung at her to facilitate her rather _explosive_ breakup with Draal the Deadly.

“You told me love is for the weak.” She takes a calm, measured sip of her coffee. “That I was a fool to jeopardize my rank and my mission for such a _human_ emotion. That the idea of love should only be used as a tool to exploit and manipulate situations in my favor, and to end the relationship before I crossed a line I couldn’t come back from.”

“I was such a bastard.”

Nomura snorts and leans forward to rest her chin on her fists. “Yeah, you were. But that’s not the point.”

“What _is_ the point?”

“That you’re full of shit,” Nomura says without a trace of humor. “It may sound sappy, but falling in love doesn’t make you weak. It’s not easy to open your heart to someone. Not for us, at least. Not after what we’ve been through. It takes _strength_. It takes courage, Strickler, to actually let someone in. To give them that kind of power without asking for anything in return.”

“You make it sound so noble,” Walter mumbles, shaking his head solemnly. “But I didn’t even know I was falling for her until it was too late.”

“I think it usually happens that way.” Nomura gives him a haphazard, one-shouldered shrug. “What did you do when you realized she’d become more than just a tool?”

“Tried to murder her son.”

“Ha ha,” Nomura deadpans, rolling her eyes as she leans back in her chair. “You always pulled your punches. And I’m serious.”

“Oh…” Walter’s brow furrows as he tries to think of an answer to her question. What had he done? “Nothing, I suppose. Absolutely, nothing.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He says slowly, not quite sure how to phrase his thoughts. “Because I knew it wasn’t going to work, but I wanted to make it last as long as possible.”

“Why?”

“Nomura…”

“Humor me, Strickler.”

“She made me feel… complete. _Whole_.” He shakes his head imperceptibly and lets out a deep breath through his nose as his head begins to ache worse than before. “Everything in our world is so fake. Power, friendship… None of it’s _real_.” He rubs a hand over his face. “And I’m not saying what Barbara and I had was real either, but… it felt like it was. There was no pressure to be something I think I _should_ be, or what Gunmar and the other changelings _want_ me to be. I was just Walt. And, for once, that was enough. _I_ was enough. And she was… so much more than that.”

 “Strickler, you shouldn’t –“

“Don’t.” His stubbled jaw twitches. “Just don’t. This is… I did this. To myself and to her. I deserve this.”

“So. What? You’re just going to keep drinking yourself numb?” She sounds incredulous now, disappointed. “When does it end?”

He shrugs. “You tell me.”

“It doesn’t stop hurting,” Nomura breathes, and folds her arms in front of her chest. “If that’s what you’re asking. Not if it was real. It might become easier with time, but you’ll always feel like you’re missing something.”

“Sounds like proper penance,” Walter murmurs. He leans forward to pluck a piece of toast from the table, but doesn’t take a bite. “Centuries of self-loathing and heartache.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” Nomura uncrosses her arms to take hold of her mug. “You have a choice. And a chance of reconciliation.”

“Reconciliation?” Walter snorts bitterly and tosses the toast back onto the table. “She doesn’t _remember_ me, Nomura. And even if she did, I honestly doubt she would want to speak to me. Much less _date_ me.”

“Maybe.” Nomura purses her lips. “But now that Gunmar has escaped from the Darklands –“

“Gunmar has made it to the surface?” Walter interrupts, sitting forward in horror as his dull green eyes suddenly dance to life. Nomura can almost _see_ the cogs in his mind begin turning. “But why didn’t you lead with that? He could be anywhere by now.”

“According to Otto, he’s set up shop in Trollmarket with _Usurna_ at his side.” She shakes her head and sighs, “You know how much she hates our kind. Especially after that stunt you pulled with the Eye. If she has any sway over Gunmar – any at all – it could be devastating for those gathering in Arcadia.”

“We have to go back.”

“Yes,” Nomura agrees with a single nod. “But not like this. You need to get your shit together first, Stricklander. Get your head in the game, because _everything_ is at stake and one false move is all Gunmar needs to –“

“I _know_ ,” Walter interrupts, holding his hand up to stop her from further lecturing. He understands he’s an emotional and physical mess – there’s no need to harp on about it. “We can’t go into this blind. What else did Otto say?”

“At least half the citizens of Trollmarket have been touched by the Decimaar Blade.” Nomura fingers the rim of the cup and shakes her head. “And with the Krubera on Gunmar’s side… His army is immense. The Trollhunter and his friends have overcome many obstacles, but to defeat Gunmar now would take a miracle.” She gives him a meaningful look. “He’s not ready.”

Walter frowns. “Then we will _make_ him ready.”

“And how do you expect to do that?” Nomura asks skeptically, eyebrows arching. “Do you honestly believe Blinkous Galadriel will just hand the Trollhunter’s training schedule over to us?”

“I don’t,” Walter admits, and rubs his temples as the headache flares again. “But Jim is a smart boy. He’ll accept our offer to help.”

Nomura chuckles. “Thus, earning you major brownie points?”

“No.” He shakes his head, and props his elbow on the table as his mouth comes to a rest against his knuckles. “I want to protect Barbara, but I have no intention to actually approach her. I’ve… caused enough pain. No need to seek more.”

And for the first time since he was called to the surface all those centuries ago, she believes him. “Alright. But what if the good doctor –“

“Nomura, _please_ …”

“Okay,” Nomura says, gazing at her fellow changeling with interest. “Okay, I won’t bring it up again.”

Walter nods, thankful. “We should go.”

“Oh no. Not yet. _You’re_ going back to bed,” Nomura snorts, rolling her eyes at him when he makes a weak attempt to stand. “You need to power up, and I want to see the city. It’s been _decades_ , you know? And a few days to let you dry out won’t hurt. We can even pay Gianni a visit when you wake up.”

“Recruiting allies already?”

“Possibly. But more importantly?  You need a shave.” Nomura quirks an eyebrow and gestures to the limp hair stuck to Walter’s forehead. “A trim wouldn’t hurt either.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves her off as he sits up and lets his head thud back against the chair, eyes falling shut. “Afraid to compete with this pretty mug, aren’t you?”

“Pretty isn’t the term I’d use,” Nomura scoffs, and grins when Walter cracks open one eye to glare at her. “Remember that stint you did in the Bastille?”

“Oh, shut it.”

“Do you need help?”

Walter sighs and mutters, “Off a cliff, maybe.”

“Strickler…”

“It was a _joke_.” Well, mostly a joke. Because there have been moments when the guilt and regret begin to bubble too close to the surface, when he feels like he’s drowning and the image of Barbara – battered and broken – seems forever burned upon the inside of his eyelids… “Don’t be so dramatic, Nomura.”

“It wasn’t funny,” Nomura breathes seriously, her jaw clenching. He may not remember the things he implied to her the night before, but she certainly does. “I’ve gone along with your stupid schemes for centuries, but I will not participate in some sort of suicide mission.”

“ _It was a joke_!”

“ _Was it_?” Nomura growls incredulously, flinging her arm pointedly in his direction as he proves her point by struggling to his feet. “Because your actions prove otherwise.”

“Casualties are to be expected in war. As you well know,” Walter drawls contemptuously and leans forward against the table to steady himself. “But rest assured, I have no intention of becoming one of them.”

“You can barely stand.”

“That has nothing to do with my will to live.” Walter rolls his eyes, and instantly regrets it when the dull ache in his forehead intensifies. His unfocused gaze strays to the end of the table. Maybe something to take the edge off this headache isn’t such a bad idea, after all.

“Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“If I see you _near_ a drink,” Nomura warns when she catches him contemplating the cocktail menu, “I’m cutting ties and leaving you to be eaten by Gunmar.”

“But what if there’s a champagne toast following our unlikely victory?” Walter asks with a smirk as he tries to throw her off the subject.

Nomura, however, has no patience for his attempt at humor. “I’ll smash the bottle over your head.”

“Must you always turn to violence?”

“We all have our own little vices.” She tilts her head. “Don’t we?”

“I’m not an alcoholic, Nomura,” Walter says dully with a slow, irritated shake. “I’ve overindulged, yes. But you needn’t worry. It’s controllable.”

“You hugged me last night. And introduced me to that woman as your little sister.”

Walter’s eyebrows arch in an almost comedic fashion. “Did I now?”

“Yes.”

“That’s…  awkward.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Did I…” He clears his throat, frowning as he struggles to remember the utter nonsense he’d spewed during those early morning hours. “Say anything else?”

Nomura nods and fights back the urge to tell him all about the guilt-ridden ramblings and concerning confessions he’d made as she’d helped him to bed. “Lots.”

“Ah.” Walter scratches his chin and straightens, as if to reestablish some sort of authority over the situation. “Yes, well. Perhaps now _is_ a good time to begin your tour of the city. And, uh, I can just kip off for a bit.”

Nomura nods as he turns unsteadily toward the bedroom. He pauses for a brief moment, and she watches him establish his balance before staggering away, leaving her to stare thoughtfully at his retreating form.

Gianni had warned her, of course – had told her of their once illustrious leader’s late-night binging and rapidly deteriorating mental state. But she’d assumed the younger changeling’s concern was unwarranted, that he was exaggerating the circumstances to benefit himself in some way. She was obviously very wrong.

Nomura sighs and pours what little is left of the coffee into her cup.

She understands the reasoning for Gianni’s unease now, and is most grateful for his interference as the extent of Walter’s grief becomes clearer to her. He’s heartbroken, of that she’s sure, but it’s the _culmination_ of loss that has caused such a proud, ambitious visionary such as Stricklander to lose himself so completely. His position of power, his beloved school, the woman he adores – all snatched away within a day’s time. And Nomura… Well, she knows better than anyone what that kind of betrayal feels like.


End file.
